Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm, With the standards of the peoples plunging thro' the thunder-storm; Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battle-flags were furl'd In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world. There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe, So I triumph'd ere my passion sweeping thro' me left me dry, Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out of joint: Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion creeping nigher, Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one increasing purpose runs, Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger on the shore, Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears a laden breast, Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, match'd with mine, Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah, for some retreat Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father evil-starr'd; — Or to burst all links of habit-there to wander far away, Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies, Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag, Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from the crag; Droops the heavy-blossom'd bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree There methinks would be enjoyment more than in this march of mind, There the passions cramp'd no longer shall have scope and breathing space; I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race. Iron-jointed, supple-sinew'd, they shall dive, and they shall run, Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of the brooks, Fool, again the dream, the fancy! but I know my words are wild, I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious gains, Mated with a squalid savage- what to me were sun or clime? I that rather held it better men should perish one by one, Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range, Mother-Age (for mine I knew not) help me as when life begun : O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set. Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall! Comes a vapour from the margin, blackening over heath and holt, Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or snow; GODIVA. I waited for the train at Coventry; I hung with grooms and porters on the bridge, To watch the three tall spires; and there I shaped The city's ancient legend into this: Not only we, the latest seed of Time, New men, that in the flying of a wheel Cry down the past, not only we, that prate Of rights and wrongs, have loved the people well, And loathed to see them overtax'd; but she Did more, and underwent, and overcame, The woman of a thousand summers back, Godiva, wife to that grim Earl, who ruled In Coventry: for when he laid a tax Upon his town, and all the mothers brought Their children, clamouring, 'If we pay, we starve!' She sought her lord, and found him, where he strode About the hall, among his dogs, alone, His beard a foot before him, and his hair A yard behind. She told him of their tears, And pray'd him, 'If they pay this tax, they starve.' Whereat he stared, replying, half-amazed, 'You would not let your little finger ache For such as these?'-'But I would die,' said she. He laugh'd, and swore by Peter and by Paul: Then fillip'd at the diamond in her ear; 'Oh ay, ay, ay, you talk!'- 'Alas!' she said, 'But prove me what it is I would not do.' And from a heart as rough as Esau's hand, He answer'd, 'Ride you naked thro' the town, And I repeal it;' and nodding, as in Gleam thro' the Gothic archway in the wall. Then she rode back, clothed on with chastity: And one low churl, compact of thankless earth, The fatal byword of all years to come, Were shrivell'd into darkness in his head, And dropt before him. So the Powers, who wait On noble deeds, cancell'd a sense misused; And she, that knew not, pass'd: and all at once, With twelve great shocks of sound, the shameless noon Was clash'd and hammer'd from a hundred towers, One after one: but even then she gain'd Her bower; whence reissuing, robed and crown'd, To meet her lord, she took the tax away And built herself an everlasting name. THE DAY-DREAM. PROLOGUE. O LADY FLORA, let me speak: A pleasant hour has pass'd away While, dreaming on your damask cheek, The dewy sister-eyelids lay. As by the lattice you reclined, I went thro' many wayward moods To see you dreaming and, behind, A summer crisp with shining woods. And I too dream'd, until at last Across my fancy, brooding warm, The reflex of a legend past, And loosely settled into form. And would you have the thought I had, And see the vision that I saw, Then take the broidery-frame, and add A crimson to the quaint Macaw, And I will tell it. Turn your face, Nor look with that too-earnest eyeThe rhymes are dazzled from their place And order'd words asunder fly. THE SLEEPING PALACE. I. THE varying year with blade and sheaf Clothes and reclothes the happy plains, Here rests the sap within the leaf, Here stays the blood along the veins. Faint shadows, vapours lightly curl'd, Faint murmurs from the meadows come, Like hints and echoes of the world To spirits folded in the womb. II. Soft lustre bathes the range of urns Deep in the garden lake withdrawn. III. Roof-haunting martins warm their eggs: More like a picture seemeth all IV. Here sits the Butler with a flask Between his knees, half-drain'd; and there The wrinkled steward at his task, The maid-of-honour blooming fair; The page has caught her hand in his: Her lips are sever'd as to speak : His own are pouted to a kiss: The blush is fix'd upon her cheek. V. Till all the hundred summers pass, The beams, that thro' the Oriel shine, Make prisms in every carven glass, And beaker brimm'd with noble wine. Each baron at the banquet sleeps, Grave faces gather'd in a ring. |